


just remember till you're home again

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: F/M, five things, plus one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21534100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: five times Brad brought Claire a souvenir(and then one time he didn't, but it didn't matter)
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 155





	just remember till you're home again

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely a work of fiction. not real, not meant to be real.

1.

Claire’s just getting started on the taffy phase of Starbursts – so far, this is going pretty well – when Brad comes over to her station. He’s back from Montana, and it’s been a while since she’s seen him.

“I gave everyone some gifts, but you weren’t here.”

It’s a beautiful, perfectly crafted French rolling pin, smooth and tapered and the loveliest rich grained wood, and she _loves_ it. He sets it on the counter in front of her and immediately starts to backpedal – he doesn’t know if it’s her style, he didn’t make it himself – but why on Earth is he apologizing?

“I love it! Thank you!” she gasps. “ _Brad –_ ”

“All right? Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”

“What a good gift! You know me.”

He blusters, but she can see how pleased he is. He immediately launches into an explanation about the guy in Montana who made it, someone who specializes in early woods, and isn’t that just the most _Brad_ part of this whole thing? – of course there’s a story, of course there’s a guy, and it’s like he’s doing everything possible to spread credit around when in reality, her working thesis statement is that Brad Leone got her the perfect present, and everything else is just a very nice footnote.

She’d hug him, maybe, but her hands are sticky with taffy and that would probably ruin it.

So she tells him she loves it, thanks him yet again, and he walks away looking as happy as she feels.

(Starbursts turn into a disaster soon enough, but the rolling pin is perfect, and that’s probably what matters.)

* * *

2.

Matt Hunziker has seen some weird things in the course of his time working with Bon Appétit.

But he’s not sure there’s anything quite as surreal as seeing Brad Leone searching patiently through stacks of old books in the middle of an antiques shop in Charleston.

Brad, the single human form of Too Much Energy, is totally and completely focused, paging carefully through old volumes like some kind of scruffy, overgrown librarian.

Hunzi’s a little bored, but he doesn’t mind the time off. Working with Brad is fun, but it takes a lot of energy, and there’s not a lot of downtime. So he sits contentedly by the door, watching incredulously as Brad digs through old books.

(He’d honestly thought Brad was joking before. But no, apparently _Hey, let’s go check out that antiques place, bud_ was a real thing.)

Stranger things have probably happened, he supposes, but he can’t think of one right now.

* * *

When Brad finally comes back over, he’s got a book under his arm. “C’mon, bud. Let’s get back to the hotel. It’s too fuckin’ hot in this city.”

He doesn’t say anything about his purchase – which is unusual in itself, because Brad Leone always feels the need to share every single detail about everything with everyone, whether they’re interested or not – but Hunzi cranes his neck to get a better look at the book. It’s a beautiful leatherbound volume, the title elegantly embossed in old script: _Miss Georgia’s Guide to Fine Baking_.

Hunzi manages not to grin too broadly.

( _Oh, so_ that’s _why we’re here._ )

* * *

Sure enough, a few days later, Hunzi’s setting up the camera in the test kitchen when he hears Brad just around the corner. “ _Hey, Claire._ ”

“ _Hey, Brad. How was Charleston?_ ”

“ _Pretty cool.”_ There’s a soft rustling noise, like he’s unwrapping paper from something. “ _I found something I thought you might like_.”

“ _Brad!_ ” Claire gasps. “ _I’ve heard of this book – oh, this is amazing! Thank you!”_

“ _Looked pretty cool_.” Brad’s voice is nowhere near as casual as he probably thinks it is. _“I’m glad you like it.”_

“ _How did you find it? There aren’t many copies. I’ve never seen one._ ”

“ _Oh, you know. Hunzi wanted to see this antiques store by the hotel, so I tagged along. Found this just kinda sittin’ there._ ”

Hunzi’s about four seconds away from marching around the corner and informing Claire that Brad Leone a.) dragged _him_ to the antiques store and b.) literally spent forty-five minutes digging through every single old book in the entire fucking building.

“ _I love it, Brad. Thank you!_ ”

Hunzi finally leans around the corner, smart-ass comment on his lips, but he stops short. Claire’s leaning against the shelves, book in her hands, but she’s looking up at Brad with the warmest, most brilliant smile, her eyes soft and beaming and _so_ adoring.

So he doesn’t say anything. Just walks away, shaking his head and smiling.

_Good work, Brad._

* * *

3.

As Claire steps out of the elevator onto the test kitchen floor, her hair is tousled, her cheeks pink from the autumn wind gusting through the streets, and she can’t help it; she’s in a good mood.

“ _Bonjour_ , Half Sour!”

She’s grinning before she even turns around, and sure enough, it’s Brad, heading towards the kitchen with a case of eggs in his arms. “ _Bonjour! Ça va?_ ”

He cocks his head. “Ya lost me.”

“How was Quebec?”

“Freakin’ awesome, Claire! Man, it’s so cool up there. Montreal is great.”

“Yeah, it is.” She hurries to open the kitchen door for him. “I miss it.”

“Well, as it happens, I got you a little something. A little taste of Canada, if you will.”

He sets the eggs down, wipes his hands on his apron, and crouches down to dig through the cupboard beneath his station. “Hey, you talked about this thing one time,” he explains, “so I thought – where the fuck – ah, _there_ we go!”

He stands up again and hands her a glass bottle. She turns it over slowly, reading the label with wide eyes. “ _Brad_. Is this –”

“Yep! It’s that smoked syrup you were talking about. I found the guy and I tried some and holy _shit_ it’s good.”

“Yeah – wow.” She shakes her head, letting out a breath. “I can’t believe you found this. Thank you, Brad.”

“Sure thing!” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Ol’ Pierre, guy who makes it? _Awesome_ guy. I told him I knew a little French.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Y’know! What you taught me.” He grins. “ _Je flame!_ ”

She dissolves into giggles. “I bet he loved that.”

“Oh yeah, he laughed, too.” Brad chuckles, tugging at his beanie. “Nah, it was great. He said he hopes you enjoy it.”

“I will. _Thank_ you, Brad.”

“Anytime, Half Sour!”

He strolls off, whistling, leaving Claire standing in the middle of the kitchen. She stares at the bottle in her hands, watching as the sunlight glints off it, scattering light across the walls.

It’s pure smoked maple syrup that’s aged in old bourbon barrels, and it might honestly be the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted. She only ever had it once, while she was studying up in Quebec.

And there’s only one place in the world to get it.

Which means Brad somehow found time in the middle of a shoot to make a nearly-three-hour trip to a little town outside Quebec City and track down Pierre, the old guy who makes this syrup. He’s old and grumpy and he makes it a single batch at a time, in his garage workshop, and he only takes orders in person.

She mentioned it once. Months ago. 

_He really was listening._

* * *

4.

Brad’s normally happy to be back to work after traveling. It’s nice to come back and sleep in his own bed. He likes the test kitchen, he likes his co-workers, and he likes coming back to share the wild tales of whatever weird things have happened.

It’s not quite right today, though.

He goes through the motions, looks over his most recent projects at the fermentation station, claps Delany on the back and tells Chris and Molly all about the wild beauty of the northern Maine forests, but it’s still not right.

(If he’s being totally honest, it hasn’t been right.

It’s been wrong since the day before he left, because he and Claire got into a fight. And he hasn’t seen her or talked to her or gotten any Facetime calls to ask where he put something and it’s been gnawing at his chest since he walked out of the kitchen that day and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.)

* * *

He ducks into the break room and scrolls through his phone, wondering what he wants to get started on first, and he’s absolutely not avoiding her, because that’s not the kind of thing –

“Brad?”

He turns to find Claire leaning in the doorway, watching him with hesitant eyes, and it hurts all over again. Because there’s something building, deep in his chest, something locked tight under his ribs that aches whenever she smiles. Or talks. Or looks at him. Or breathes.

And the sharpness in her voice still rings in his ears ( _Brad, would you stop? Just go away. I’m really not in the mood_ ), even a week later.

“Hey, Claire.”

She stays in the doorway and that hurts, because it may be a totally normal distance between two people but it feels _wrong_ with her.

(But then, he started it, didn’t he? Instead of just giving her a present like a man, he tucked it into her cubby this morning and walked away.)

She holds up the little figure, a delicate little palm-sized cat carved from local wood in the north Maine forests. “It’s adorable, Brad. I love it. Thank you.”

“Well, you’re very welcome, Claire.”

She turns it over carefully, looking at it with bright eyes. “He looks just like Felix.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Not at first, though. He’d actually asked the artist to add just a touch more white on the nose to make it perfect. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s perfect.” She leans against the doorframe, her face softening. “Look – about last week –”

“Claire –”

“I’m sorry.” She says it firmly, her eyes locked on his. “I’m really sorry I yelled at you.”

“You were having a bad day, Claire. I don’t hold it against ya.” He shrugs. “I should’ve given you space. I know I’m a lot to deal with.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And I’m sorry.” She holds out a hand. “Friends?”

“Friends for sure, Claire.” He squeezes her small, delicate hand in his, and it feels like all the knotted, tangled unhappiness that’s been building up in his chest is dissolving into pure sunlight. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good.” Her smile widens. “Hey, I burned my latest batch of wafers. Wanna try one?”

Brad grins at her. He knows a peace offering when he hears it. “Lead the way.”

* * *

When she pulls out the tray of wafers, Brad can’t stop himself from laughing. “Holy shit, Claire. What’d you do, launch ‘em into the sun?”

“ _Brad!_ ”

“What?” He picks one up. “Oh, sorry. Is ‘fireplace ashes’ the flavor you’re looking for?”

Her jaw drops (but her eyes are sparkling) and it feels _good_ , because she’s pretending to be affronted but this is what they _do_ and it’s still so right. “Well, there’s no need to be an asshole about it.”

“Hey, hey! Language!” Brad points at her warningly. She glares at him, and he can’t help it. “You really are Chocolate-y Claire, aren’t ya?”

She wrinkles her nose. “What do you mean?”

“Y’know. Sometimes you lose your temper.”

She groans, slapping his arm halfheartedly. “That was _awful_.”

“But you liked it,” he teases, bumping her with his elbow, and the soft, fond, exasperated smile he gets in return makes everything bright, the way he’s wanted it to be.

* * *

That night, he’s at home watching baseball when she texts him. _Felix and mini Felix_ , it reads, along with a photo of her cat staring suspiciously at the little wooden figurine.

He grins. _hope they get along okay._

Her response comes a few seconds later.

_Friends for sure._

* * *

5.

When Carla walks into the test kitchen bright and early on Monday morning, she finds Brad standing by the door, oblivious. “Good morning, Leone. You gonna let me through here?”

Brad looks up and shoves something hastily into his pocket as he steps out of her way. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t see ya there.”

“Welcome back.” She hangs up her jacket and tucks her bag away, reaching for an apron. “How was Fort Collins?”

“It was great! Weather kinda sucked, but what can you do, huh?” He leans back on the counter. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing too exciting. No fires, anyway.” Carla finished tying on her apron.

She thinks he’s going to wander off, do something, but Brad surprises her. He looks around – there’s no one else in the kitchen yet – and the expression on his face reminds her of Cosmo when he’s trying to avoid something.

Finally, she’s had enough of the weirdness. “What?”

Brad sighs. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“But – like – can it maybe just –” he waves a hand vaguely between them – “maybe you just not mention it to anyone?”

 _This_ is new.

Carla leans a hand on the kitchen island. He’s got her full attention. “If that’s what you want, sure.”

“I, uh.” Rather than try and explain, he looks down, looks around, scratches his neck, and finally pulls a little brown paper packet out of his pocket. “See, I got these –”

He unfolds the paper to show her a pair of earrings, and Carla takes them in her hand, holding them up for a closer look. They’re small, delicate, with twined silver-and-gold wire curved neatly around vivid blue stones that look like lapis. They’re absolutely beautiful.

Carla smiles. “Not really your color, Brad.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ha. Very funny. Nah, I met this girl who’s been makin’ em for a while, she uses stones she finds on a ranch out there, yadda yadda.”

“Well, they’re lovely,” Carla says. “So what’s your question?”

(She has a pretty decent idea what it is.)

“Is it –” he looks intensely uncomfortable – “is it too weird to give these to – to Claire?”

(Yep. She was right.)

“You’ve gotten her things before, haven’t you?” He nods. Brad brings stuff back for everyone, Carla knows, and it doesn’t surprise her at all that he’s been bringing Claire presents. “You know, she still raves about that rolling pin you gave her.” That gets a smile from him, and Carla leans a hip against the kitchen island, cocking her head. “But you think this feels different somehow?”

“I just, I dunno.” He shrugs. “I saw ‘em and I just thought maybe she’d like ‘em. But now I dunno, maybe – I dunno.”

“You want to know if it’s too much?”

He looks relieved. “Exactly.”

Carla hands them back to him. “Brad, they’re perfect.”

“Really?”

She nods. Brad Leone, for all his bluster, is a surprisingly sensitive man. He cares a lot about things. And he might not realize it, but Carla’s not blind, and the fact that he’s positively smitten with Claire has been obvious (at least to her) for a while now.

And the fact that he’s even hesitating with this?

 _That_ says something.

“Absolutely.” She pats his arm affectionately. “She’s going to love them.”

“Awesome.” His grin brightens, his whole posture changing, and _there_ he is, there’s Brad. Loud and enthusiastic and ready to take on the world. “Hey, thanks, Carla.”

“Anytime, hon.”

(On Tuesday, Claire walks into the test kitchen wearing the earrings. And when Brad sees her, Carla notices with amusement, his ears go red and he smiles like a bashful, overgrown schoolboy.)

* * *

_and one time he didn’t_

Everyone’s been huddled in the office area upstairs, crowded together, all morning. The news scrolls across Chris' computer screen – a massive riot and fires across the city. Chaos. Smoke billowing through the skies. The prime minister has declared a state of emergency. No word on whether or not planes are being allowed to leave the airport.

The airport where Brad is supposed to be, right now.

No one has heard anything. Not a single message. Hunzi got back yesterday; Brad had stayed to finish a few post-production things, and was supposed to be flying back right now.

The news is little more than scattered, shaky footage, and has been since the first reports came out. The minute it came out, everyone in the test kitchen had given up whatever they were working on, leaving half-mixed dough and produce sitting around as they raced upstairs to find out whatever they could find out.

So now everyone’s on laptops and tablets and phones, scouring the internet for information. Carla watches the screens with everyone else, but she can’t stop herself from glancing at Claire.

Claire, who hasn’t said a word since the news broke.

She just stares at her phone, tight-lipped and strained, like she’s pleading with it to tell her what’s happening. She keeps looking back at Brad’s desk with its mess of everything, papers and computer and knick-knacks and a suspiciously adorable jar of yellow Starbursts that says _BRAD_ on the side. Her eyes are wide and glassy and hollow, and she doesn’t say a word.

She’s wearing the earrings Brad gave her.

Carla doesn’t know how long they’ve all been crowded between desks, frantically trying to figure out a way to do _something_ , anything, when she hears doors slamming down the hallway, loud voices, rushing footsteps.

Delany appears across the floor, out of breath, and the minute he sees them all crowded around, he hurries to join them. “Guys! Guys, Brad’s okay. He’s okay.”

Every single person turns, administrative staff leaning in to listen too, and Molly’s the first one to ask. “Are you sure?”

Delany nods. “I just heard. Apparently, Brad lost his phone, but he managed to get to the airport, and he borrowed a phone from someone he met there. So he called home, and his mom called the office to let Adam know.”

Carla folds her arms. “And you’re sure he made it out?”

“She said Brad only had a few minutes, so they didn’t talk long, but he told her he’s okay, and he managed to get onto one of the last flights back to the US. He’s in the air right now, and he’ll be back in New York by tonight.”

Carla lets out a long breath, pressing her hand to her heart in silent gratitude. The mood in the room is completely different, hope breathing light into the very air, and she sees the same relief she feels reflected in everyone’s faces around her.

She steals another look at Claire, who’s smiling faintly, but still looks like she’s made of glass.

* * *

On any other day, Carla knows, the pan of dry, slightly-overbaked petit fours sitting on the bench would have Claire beside herself, groaning and sighing, leaning on the counter and glaring at them like they’d personally offended her.

Of course, that’s any other day.

The kitchen has been just a little off ever since they found out Brad was okay, and all the test chefs trailed back to work to try and regain a sense of normalcy. It’s not terrible, but the energy feels off. It’s intangible, filmy, something thing and clear in the air that feels too thin and unsteady and just a little shaky because one of their own needs to come back home safe and sound before it’ll be right again.

But even as everyone tries to find normal and slowly gets back to some kind of routine, Claire’s struggling. Her eyes are wide, her face pale. She’s quieter than usual. She’s unfocused. Carla bites her tongue, telling herself _She’s an adult, she can make her own decisions._

(But then again, who usually keeps Claire from sinking too far in her own mind?)

Finally, when Claire’s oven mitt slips and she burns her hand on a tray, Carla’s had enough.

She sets the tray safely out of the way and wraps a bandage over Claire’s palm, smoothing the ends, and setting a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Claire, honey. Go home.”

Claire’s eyes go even wider, and she starts to shake her head. “No, I can’t –”

“You’re a mess, and you’ve already hurt yourself,” Carla points out. Kitchen accidents are no laughing matter, and any chef worth her salt knows when to say _stop_. “If we hear anything else, I’ll text you right away, okay? But your mind isn’t here. Go home, go do something. It’ll all be better tomorrow.”

Claire hesitates for a long moment, and Carla thinks she sees just a flicker of something in the younger woman’s expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it’s going to break sooner or later.

Finally, Claire nods, defeated. “Okay.”

“Good girl.” Carla gives her a quick hug. “Go. Take care of yourself. Keep your phone around, and you’ll know whatever we know.”

* * *

Claire leaves the office. Changes clothes. Goes for a run.

By the time she gets home again, she’s exhausted. She trudges up the steps to her building slowly, wiping sweat from her face. She showers, pulls on a soft sweatshirt and leggings, and sinks into her couch with a sigh, scrubbing her hands over her face before tugging her hair back in a braid.

But she has to do something. She doesn’t want to sit still, and it’s too quiet.

The little wooden cat is watching her from a bookshelf.

So she puts in a load of laundry, sweeps the floor, and dusts. Felix watches lazily from the couch, blinking at her passively before tucking himself into a perfect circle and falling asleep again.

It’s not until she’s stacking clean dishes and putting away cutlery that she starts to realize that even staying busy can’t fix it. Because she was wearing his earrings today. And when she opens another drawer, she sees his rolling pin, nestled among her other utensils.

She holds it together until she opens her spice cabinet and sees the bottle of syrup. The one he brought her from Quebec. It’s still sealed. She’s been saving it.

But suddenly it hits her: she has no idea what she’s saving it _for_.

(What if she never gets the chance?)

The realization hits her like a fist in the stomach and she flinches, shutting the cabinet door, blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes.

It’s okay. She knows it’s okay. 

But that it can’t stop her from thinking about every single thing that could possibly go wrong. What if his plane couldn’t take off? What if he stopped and tried to help someone? Brad’s nice to a fault – what if he gave up his seat for someone? What if he got hit on the head, got confused, lost his way?

Or what if he _did_ get back to New York, and then he got mugged in the subway, or he was so exhausted he fell off the ferry, and he’s just sinking to the bottom of the Hudson River right now, or maybe –

The knock at her door comes as a surprise, but it only takes a fraction of a second for her to guess just who it might be.

Claire grabs the doorknob, unlocks it with shaking hands, and she doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she opens the door to find Brad Leone standing behind it.

His backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he looks exhausted, his face lined and weary. But the minute he sees her, his eyes light up, and his tired face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, Claire.”

His bag hits the floor and he just has time to open his arms when she’s on him.

Claire wraps her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his chest, breathing in the warmth of his body. He smells like sweat and smoke and stale air but he’s _here_. She’s shaking now, her body trembling uncontrollably as his arms tighten around her, strong and steady, and for the first time since she saw that first breaking headline scroll across her phone and her heart stopped, she finally feels like she can breathe.

She looks up at him, taking in the familiar, comforting sight. It’s not until he reaches up and brushes a gentle thumb across her cheekbone, catching a stray tear, that she realizes she’s crying.

“Hey, c’mon now,” he says. “It’s okay, Claire. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.” She lets out a shaky breath, trying in vain to blink away the tears. “I just –”

“I know.”

Claire sniffles a little, tightening her arms around his chest, trying to swallow the ache in her throat. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“You make a guy real glad to be home, Saffitz.”

She laughs a little at that, shaky but genuine, wallowing in the warmth and steadiness of Brad and the word _home_.

She finally wipes her eyes and ushers him inside. “Is that all you have?”

He looks down at his backpack with a sheepish grin. “Yeah. I mean, I had a suitcase, but once I saw fire outside the hotel, I just grabbed this and took off.”

“Oh, Brad –”

“Hey, it could be worse,” he assures her. “I already had it packed, so I had all my paperwork and passport and shit, no problem. Even got a change of clothes in here.”

“But Delany said you lost your phone?”

“Oh, yeah.” He winces. “Dropped it while I was running for the airport. Pretty sure it’s still back on that street in a million fucking pieces by now. I didn’t stop to look back.”

Claire can’t stop herself from flinching at that, and of course he doesn’t miss it. “Hey, hey, Claire.” He sets a hand on her shoulder, steady and sure. “It’s okay. It’s just a phone, I’ll get a new one.”

“I know.” She doesn’t know how to explain that she’s been a wreck all day, her mind racing with every possible worst case scenario, and the thought of him never coming home still sends a chill down her spine. “I know. It’s – I’m just so glad you’re back.”

The sun’s already going down, and the thought of Brad waving goodbye and heading back to Jersey makes her heart ache in her chest again, and before she really thinks about it, she looks up at him. “You wanna stay for dinner?”

“That’d be great.” He looks down at himself. “Actually – if you don’t mind – could I possibly use your shower? I’m kinda gross.”

* * *

He disappears into the bathroom and Claire busies herself, digging out pasta and a container of pesto sauce she made yesterday and half a loaf of garlic-and-rosemary bread she’d brought home after recipe testing. It’s not the most labor-intensive meal, but this is about all she’s ready to deal with tonight.

When Brad emerges from the bathroom, his curly hair damp, smelling clean and warm, Claire’s got pasta boiling, sauce warming, and she’s set out glasses of water for both of them.

“Better?” she asks, and he groans in satisfaction, taking a long gulp of water.

“I feel fuckin’ _human_ again, Claire. So good.” He leans back against the opposite counter, sighing happily. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She looks over the stove. “Almost done here.”

He sets his hands on her shoulders as he leans over to sniff the food appreciatively. “It smells so good, Claire. I’m _starving_. Haven’t eaten since – fuck, I don’t even remember.”

“You didn’t get anything on the way back?”

He shrugs. “Nah. I came straight here.”

She stops stirring the sauce and looks up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, offering her a soft half-smile. “I knew you’d be worried.”

He squeezes her shoulders and she’s swamped with the urge to throw everything aside and wrap herself around him again, just hug him tightly and not let go. But she shakes it off. Not now.

“Do you want to get drinks?” she says instead, wiping her hands on a towel. “There’s beer in the fridge if you want it. Or – I think I have white wine already open.”

She’s for the cupboard to grab plates when Brad sputters. “Whoa, whoa whoa! Hang on.”

She freezes, hand still on the door. “What?”

“What the hell is this?” He grabs her left hand in his, turning it over, running his fingers over the bandage. “What happened?”

“Oh, yeah.” She’d almost forgotten about that. “I burned myself.”

“Must’ve been bad.” His hands are so _careful_ , so gentle on hers. “This ain’t normal for you.”

She shrugs, flushing under his frank gaze. “It wasn’t really a normal day.”

Brad let her hand go and she chances a look up at his face, and the open, obvious affection in his eyes – like he _knows_ , like he understands just how it happened – makes her heart stumble in her chest.

* * *

They end up on the couch with plates of pasta and slices of crusty bread. Brad attacks his food with gusto. “ _So_ good, Claire. So good. This bread is perfect.”

“Thanks.” She tucks her feet under herself, grabbing her wine glass. “Remember that time we made sourdough bread?”

He grins. “Oh, how could I forget? Those fuckin’ float tests. Of course the one time you want it to work on camera, it sinks like a stone.”

By the time they finish their dinner, Claire’s feeling warm and sleepy, mellow from food and wine and just the sheer relief of having him back safe.

Brad’s in the middle of telling her all about the bakery he visited before all the chaos – apparently the owner is such a big guy he made Brad feel tiny, which is really something to think about – when he pauses, looking at her with soft eyes. “Hey, you still with me? You look a little hazy.”

“Hmm?” Claire smiles, shaking her head as she sets down her wineglass. “Yeah, sorry. Just – ”

Her voice trails off, and Brad’s still watching her, his eyes so very blue that it makes her catch her breath. 

Her heart is hammering in her chest, and as cautious as she is, as careful with every aspect of life and work and everything in between, she’s starting to wonder. And she can’t shake the sensation that’s been creeping over her for hours now, the urgency blossoming under her skin. He’s here and he’s safe and happy and that almost didn’t happen, and is she really willing to take that chance again?

( _What am I waiting for?_ )

Claire takes a deep breath.

She leans in slowly, steadying herself with one hand on his shoulder, and his eyes widen as he realizes what she’s doing.

“Claire –”

“Yeah?” She breathes it against his mouth, pausing for just a fraction of a moment before she closes the distance and kisses him.

It’s soft and light and gentle and it takes her breath away. And despite her analytical mind, her tendency to think and calculate and overanalyze every aspect of what’s happening, everything has gone blissfully, beautifully silent. It’s all just Brad, his lips on hers, his hands cradling her face like she’s something unbearably precious, the solid, reassuring warmth of his chest as she leans into him.

“Hey, Claire?” His lips brush hers as he speaks, his hand still tangled in her hair.

“Hmm?”

“I missed you.”

She only has time to take a breath before he’s kissing her again, one big hand on her waist to steady her.

He kisses her like he’s got all the time in the world, slowly, unhurried, exploring her mouth like he wants to memorize every detail. It’s not a prelude to anything more than itself; Claire’s exhausted, and she can only imagine how tired he must be, after the ordeal he’s gone through to get here.

“Do you want to stay?” she murmurs, leaning her forehead against his.

“You want me to?”

She nods slowly, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with exquisite tenderness.

“Then yeah.”

* * *

Claire flicks the lights off and turns around to find Brad holding back the covers, a soft smile on his face. “C’mere.”

She curls up against him, letting her head rest against his shoulder, one hand on his chest. He’s so warm. Her body fits perfectly, tucked neatly against his, and if she were feeling sentimental, she’d think something about this always being meant to be.

Brad presses a kiss to her forehead, curling an arm around her easily, rubbing his hand over her back in slow, soothing circles. She can feel the fatigue in his body, the heaviness in his arms.

“So I have to apologize,” he murmurs into her hair. “I got you this really great little thing, this wooden bird. This guy carved it for me, and oh man, you woulda loved it, Claire.”

“Oh, Brad –”

“I left it at the hotel, and I didn’t have a chance to grab it,” he admits. “Sorry. I was really excited about it.”

Claire leans up to press a soft kiss to his mouth, and he kisses her back, willing and generous. Open, the way he is in everything. It’s knit into everything about him, infuses very word, every move.

He’s been bringing her things for so long, anything he could find that would make her happy, and isn’t that all it is?

She hums, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his chest, running her hand over his scratchy, scruffy chin. “Brad – you came back. You’re safe. That’s the only thing I wanted.”

He wraps himself tighter around her, if it’s even possible, and Claire swallows hard, lifting her head to search out his gaze. “Was it – was it really bad?”

“It was rough.” His voice is softer than usual. “It wasn’t – I mean – it – had me a little worried, that’s all. It was rough.”

She knows he’s downplaying it. And maybe someday she’ll push him for the truth. But right now, it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he’s safe and warm in her arms, and she doesn’t think she’s ever been this grateful for anything, ever.

Claire falls asleep listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing, and her last waking thought is a quiet, simple realization, one that’s been creeping up on her for months now.

And maybe she was slow to see it, but then again, no one ever told her that a rolling pin and a cookbook and a little wooden cat figure were such perfect preludes to love.


End file.
